


dream of some epiphany

by extasiswings



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Letters, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex, Soft Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25682788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Evan Buckley is lost.It’s happenstance that he wanders into the navy recruiting center—he’s been in San Diego for a few weeks, bartending late nights and weekends, living in a house with three other guys not because he needs the roommates but because he doesn’t want to be alone, and the military is…respectable.  Stable.  So Buck thinksmaybeand opens the door.Buck leaves ten minutes later with a set of printed instructions for sending his first letter, assured that he can drop it off whenever he’s ready, and a name.Staff Sergeant Edmundo “Eddie” Diaz.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz
Comments: 53
Kudos: 609





	dream of some epiphany

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elisela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/gifts).



> Once again, Eli said "I want a thing" and I was entirely helpless to stop myself. In this case it was "I want a long-distance AU so bad" and...well. In my defense, I really did think this would be fluffier?

Evan Buckley is…lost. 

He hates thinking it, hates admitting it, but it’s the most apt description. Lost. Unmoored, untethered, drifting absently from one job to the next, one city or even country to the next, not putting down roots anywhere. 

He knows what his parents would say, if he asked. They would tell him to stop messing around and go to grad school, get an MBA or a law degree, anything other than the BA in communications that he ended up with because he couldn’t figure out what he wanted to do with his life but had to declare a major. But he doesn’t ask his parents and they don’t call him either—he got access to his trust fund when he turned twenty-one and he left Pennsylvania and hasn’t really looked back.

He would call Maddie. He wouldn’t mind getting advice from her. But Maddie doesn’t answer his calls anymore. 

And Buck’s lost. 

It’s happenstance that he wanders into the navy recruiting center—he’s been in San Diego for a few weeks, bartending late nights and weekends, living in a house with three other guys not because he needs the roommates but because he doesn’t want to be alone, and the military is…respectable. Stable. So Buck thinks _maybe_ and opens the door. 

There’s no one at the front desk when he walks in. Buck glances around at the posters on the wall—they’re full of taglines about the honor of serving your country, promises about benefits, about building community, about becoming a leader. The longer he looks at them, the more something tugs at the back of his mind, discomfort sliding down his spine—

“Can I help you?”

A young man in glasses comes out of the back room, a stack of files in his hands. Buck swallows, suddenly unsure, and his eyes search for something that he can ask about that isn’t how to join the military. They land on a poster for a “Write-A-Soldier” pen pal program that says it covers all branches.

It seems innocent enough. _Why not?_ he thinks. 

“Um…yeah. I was just wondering…”

Buck leaves ten minutes later with a set of printed instructions for sending his first letter, assured that he can drop it off whenever he’s ready, and a name.

_Staff Sergeant Edmundo “Eddie” Diaz._

* * *

Eddie is stretched out on his bunk when the tent flap opens, staring absently into space as his fingers toy with the St. Christopher medal around his neck. He doesn’t look up, lost in thought, lost in—well. Just lost, really.

“Hey, Diaz. You’ve got mail,” Charlene says as she drops a letter on his chest.

That gets his attention.

“I—what?” Eddie sits up and the envelope slides off of him. He wracks his brain trying to remember if anyone in his family has mentioned anything about sending him stuff recently and comes up blank. He picks the envelope up and turns it over—the handwriting on the outside is unfamiliar, the address from California. 

“What is this?”

She shrugs, a smile playing around her lips. “Don’t know, it’s _your_ mail. I’m guessing it’s from the pen pal thing I signed you up for though.”

“You—what—Charlene—”

She grins. “Enjoy. Bye.” 

She’s gone before Eddie can pull together enough words to adequately respond. When he turns his attention back to the innocuous mailpiece, he stares at it like it’s a bomb. 

_That pen pal thing_ , huh? So it’s from a stranger.

Eddie supposes at least it isn’t from a lawyer.

He could just not open it. Then again, the part of him that was raised to write thank you cards after every gift-giving occasion balks at the idea of just tossing something that someone took time and effort to send him. It’s probably like…some high school kid on a _thank you for your service_ kick anyway. There isn’t any harm in reading what they have to say.

So. He opens it.

_Dear Eddie,_

_Do you ever feel like you’re the only person in the world who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing? Because I definitely do. I look around and it seems like everyone has their life together or is at least on a path with goals and shit to get their life together, to end up married and successful with kids by 35 or whatever, when meanwhile I’m sitting here stuck in neutral with no path and no goals and no one to talk to so I guess I’m…talking to you. Sorry. I should probably start over._

_Hi. I’m Evan. But I go by Buck. I’m 23 and I…don’t know why I’m writing this letter really. Are you lonely? I wondered if you might be. I am. I’m also a little drunk so sorry if this is hard to read._

_I signed up for this because I ended up in a recruitment center the other day. I thought maybe the navy could give me direction or something. Be a SEAL or I don’t know, that sounded kind of cool. But I don’t really like guns or war or fighting…I don’t think I would be a very good soldier. That’s probably a weird thing to say since you’re one. Is it weird?_

_I want to be useful, that’s the main thing. I want to feel like I’m doing something that matters. I want to stop existing just for the sake of it._

_Do you feel useful, doing what you do? Do you feel like it matters?_

_Who am I kidding, you probably have your life together too. Or if you don’t you probably don’t want to be sharing that with a stranger. Which is fine. I shouldn’t be writing this anyway. I probably won’t send it._

_I’ve never been very good at this. Writing letters. I never know how to end them. I guess I’ll just say…I hope you’re happy and healthy and safe, wherever you are. And please don’t feel like you have to write back because you really don’t. Anyway…if you got to the end of this…thanks for reading._

_-Buck_

Eddie stares at the page, the messy handwriting, the scattered thoughts, and he reads the letter again. And again.

Some raw, hollowed out piece of him aches in sympathy. Because fuck, he understands the confusion, the longing, the frustration that drips from every paragraph. He understands all too well. 

He doesn’t know exactly why he reaches for a pen. Maybe just because he gets it, or maybe because he finds it laughable that someone would assume he’s doing any better and feels the need to correct the assumption—

—or maybe just because he is, in fact, lonely. 

But he writes. He writes a lot, in fact. And when he’s finished, he feels, somehow lighter.

* * *

The thing is, Buck doesn’t really mean to write the first letter. He spends a week thinking about it, feeling like an idiot for signing up in the first place instead of just giving the desk attendant a polite _no thank you_. And then, he starts thinking more, and that sends him spiraling a little bit, wondering about the kind of person who signs up on the other end of a program like this, wonders if they have family or friends or if they’re looking to get letters from a stranger because they don’t have anyone else. He wonders if this Eddie Diaz is lonely.

He wonders if Eddie’s like him. 

Buck’s still contemplating going back to the center and saying _actually nevermind_ that Saturday night. He has an early shift, but he lingers in the bar after and has a drink, catches the eye of a redhead in the corner with winged eyeliner and a tight skirt—her nails rake down his back later when he fucks her against the wall in the alley outside the employee exit and after, she purrs in his ear that he was very good for her before kissing his cheek and heading back inside without a phone number or a backward glance—

He goes home alone and has another drink. And then another, trying to chase away the hollow, dirty, used feeling crawling across his skin. His roommates are either in bed or out finding their own hookups, so there’s no one around to ask him what he’s doing when he pulls out a pen and a random pad of lined paper left behind by the guy who had his room before. There’s no one to ask why he needs an envelope at 2AM when he’s finished writing.

The thing is…Buck doesn’t actually remember what he writes. When he wakes up, the letter is sealed and partially addressed, and he gets sick in the bathroom before downing several glasses of water. When he feels slightly less like death warmed over, he finishes addressing it and takes it back to the recruitment center and drops it off.

And that’s it. He expects it to be it. Out of sight, out of mind. His handwriting isn’t great under the best of circumstances so even if he did say anything that he’ll regret, who can say if it’s even legible. Worst case, he figures this guy will read it and not write back. 

A month later, he’s forgotten completely, which is why it takes him entirely by surprise when—

“Hey, Buck, you got a weird letter with a fuckton of stamps on it,” Jake calls from the couch when Buck walks through the door. “I think it was from overseas or something? Anyway, I slid it under your door.”

_What—oh._ “I—thanks, man,” Buck replies, his stomach dropping out from under him. He still doesn’t remember what he wrote. He’s not wholly convinced that any response isn’t just going to be a polite way of telling him to please not write again. 

But, he goes into his room and grabs the letter off the floor, collapsing onto his bed before opening it.

There are more pages than he expects. Certainly more than would suffice to tell him to fuck off. 

Buck swallows hard and unfolds the sheets. And then he starts to read. 

_Buck,_

_I’m pretty sure you’re the only person I know who has ever assumed I have my life together. Trust me, I don’t._

_You asked if I feel useful, if I feel like what I’m doing matters—the answer is both yes and no. The truth is, I never wanted to be a soldier. I didn’t feel called or anything like that, I felt backed into a corner with no other way out. I was a scared kid when I joined. I still feel like a scared kid sometimes. A lot of the time maybe. But, I’m also a combat medic. So sometimes I get to feel useful, yeah. Other times…other times I wonder if I make any difference at all._

_My wife left me. I think this may be the first time I’ve used those words without trying to qualify them in some way. I used to say she left but we were just taking some time, that she was coming back. But the truth is she just left. And she’s not coming back because she filed for divorce two months ago._

_I haven’t told anyone about that. Because I don’t know how to say it. My son is living with my parents right now and whenever I call home, he asks me when he’s going to see his mom again and I don’t have an answer because the papers her lawyer sent me say she doesn’t want custody._

_He’s only four, my son. His name is Christopher. And I’ve spent most of his life in a desert on the other side of the world. I told myself it was better for me to be able to provide for him than be there but he’s growing up so fast and I’m missing all of it and it kills me sometimes how much I want to be home with him. Especially now._

_I don’t have a better plan though. I really don’t. You asked if I ever feel like I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing? Every damn day. I don’t have a clue. And every time I try to do something that feels like what I’m supposed to, I end up failing. I failed as a husband. I’m failing as a father. Apparently the only thing I’m actually good at is being a soldier and that’s—_

There are a few lines after that which are scratched out. 

_Anyway. All this to say…you’re definitely not the only one. My life is a pretty big mess right now and I don’t know how or even where to start trying to fix it._

_I think it’s easier admitting that to you than it is to anyone else._

_Now that we’ve cleared that up, I don’t know if you want advice from me about anything that’s going on with you, but if you would like some I can try to help. Besides being useful, what would you like to do? What are you doing now?_

_Don’t feel like you have to write back. I didn’t sign myself up for this program, one of the other members of my platoon did. I think she also assumed I was lonely._

_I’m not saying she was wrong. But don’t feel obligated._

_I’m staying safe as much as I can be. Healthy, yes. Happy is…I think we covered why that’s difficult right now._

_Thank you for your letter._

_-Eddie_

Oh. 

Buck folds the pages back up—part of him feels like he should be embarrassed for what he wrote before, but. Eddie responded. Not only that, he was honest. Far more than Buck ever anticipated. And it’s—

It does actually make him feel a little less alone.

Buck gets up from his bed and goes to his desk, pulling out the pad of paper again. 

_Dear Eddie,_

* * *

_I know it sounds cheesy, but I want to help people. I don’t really care how. I just want to make a difference. I like working with my hands I guess. And I like people so I wouldn’t mind doing something that lets me work with them more directly. Lately I’ve been working as a bartender, but I don’t want that to be a permanent thing._

_My sister is a nurse. I think I might not mind something like that, but I don’t know if I have the stamina for the coursework. I’m a smart guy, but math and science classes have never been my strong suit. You said you’re a medic? How did you end up doing that?_

_Feel free to tell me if I’m overstepping but I can tell how much you care about your kid from just a few paragraphs in a letter. If I can tell that, I’m sure he knows every time he talks to you. So for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re failing as a father. As someone whose parents were around but never seemed to care all that much despite that, I think physical presence is overrated._

_I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry for your son. That sounds really difficult and wish I knew what to say but…honestly, I’ve rarely been able to get someone to stick around for more than a few nights so I’m not really someone to be giving relationship advice. Or post-relationship advice. At the end of the day though, I may not know what was going on in your marriage, but she chose to leave your son and give up custody. That’s not your fault._

_Wow, we really started off on a heavy foot, didn’t we? Sorry about that. On a lighter note, if you want to get to know me when I’m not drunk and depressed, I found this list of questions online that seemed kind of fun. At the very least, I hope the answers make you laugh._

_Looking forward to hearing from you again._

_-Buck_

Eddie sets the letter aside and looks at the printed pages of questions that Buck answered, including such examples as _Have you ever fallen out of a tree?_ (answer: _yes, I was startled by a squirrel while climbing, but thankfully wasn’t that high up yet_ ) and _What’s your favorite kind of caffeine?_ (answer: _coffee, but with enough sugar and milk that you can’t really taste it. Alternatively, with flavors._ ). He snorts and searches through his pens for a red one, scribbling commentary in the margins.

_I’m sure that squirrel was very scary—do I want to know how old you were or should I assume this was recent?_

_How did you break your wrist in a kids’ musical? Did you fall off the stage?_

_That doesn’t even qualify as coffee at that point._

_Please tell me you weren’t doing that Polar Plunge naked…_

He makes copies and fills in his own answers as well before writing his own letter and folding up all of the sheets small enough to fit into a normal envelope. He doesn’t stop smiling all afternoon.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Charlene remarks at dinner, shoulder-checking him as she pulls up a chair. “You have a call with Chris or something?”

“That’s tomorrow,” Eddie replies. “I, uh—actually, I got another letter from my pen pal. I was planning on dropping my reply into mail collection on Thursday.”

“Wait, you wrote back? Good for you, Diaz—I wasn’t sure you would.” 

He shrugs, taking the excuse of having food in front of him to avoid looking at her.

“Well, you know me—any excuse to overshare.”

It’s a joke, but Eddie feels Charlene’s eyes on him for a long moment after.

“I hope you are,” she says finally. “Oversharing. Or just…sharing in general. I sort of thought that maybe you would be more comfortable opening up to a stranger. It’s why I signed you up—I know you haven’t said much since you’ve been back, but I can tell something’s been going on with you. And you don’t have to talk to me about it, lord knows as much as I care about all y’all there are things in my life I wouldn’t discuss if I was being paid to. But I have noticed. And I do care. So if you need a hundred other pen pals, or if you ever just want to talk to someone present…I’m right here too.” 

Eddie’s eyes prick hot and he blinks and roughly clears his throat before looking back at her.

“Thank you,” he says. “For being here. And for signing me up.”

Charlene offers him a small smile and nudges his shoulder again. “We Texans gotta stick together, right?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess we do.”

* * *

It keeps going for months, although that doesn’t actually mean much given how long it takes to send each letter back and forth. And then _months_ turns into a year before Buck even realizes. He’s smiling more, he’s figuring things out, he stops picking up random women in bars trying to fake connection through sex when what he really wants is—

—when what he really wants is the letters collected in his desk drawer. And the man who writes them from the other side of the world.

Not that he says that. There’s something a little—well. Cliché? About getting a crush on someone you’ve never met because they were nice to you and listened and responded. Maybe more than a crush.

Hell, he doesn’t even know what Eddie looks like. That doesn’t seem to matter.

_Buck,_

_I never planned on becoming a medic either, I sort of stumbled into it—_

_Hey, I can’t blame you for the heaviness. You weren’t the only one who needed to talk—_

_Eddie,_

_Yes, the Polar Plunge was naked, it was college. Yes, I regret it—_

_Continuing the trend of less heavy topics, the other day I tried to make salsa but I mixed up cilantro and parsley—_

_Buck,_

_The final papers got signed this week. I still haven’t told my parents. So that should be a super fun conversation when I get leave again. Fingers crossed I’ll be home for Christmas. According to my youngest sister, Christopher has a list for “Santa” that is mostly just about me and his mom, and yes, I did have to take several minutes after that call—_

_Might I suggest if you’re mixing up cilantro and parsley, you might not be capable of making decent salsa to begin with? Where did you learn that, central Pennsylvania?—_

_Eddie,_

_First of all, rude, we can’t all be from border states. Second of all, I learned in Rio thank you very much. Third, it was an accident, the store shelved it wrong and I was tired and not paying attention. Fourth, I seem to recall you mentioning a story about setting off the fire alarm in your apartment making pasta—_

_I’ve been in San Diego for a lot longer than I planned, but I think I might move on soon. Maybe to LA. See where that takes me—_

_Buck,_

_Didn’t quite make it home for Christmas, but the day after is close enough, right? Christopher didn’t seem to mind that I was late—_

_You might notice this address is stateside—figured it would get to you faster, but I might be gone again before you write back. I know you’re busy with the move…Only a few more months left on my tour, should be home by summer if all goes well—_

_Eddie,_

_You were right, LA is great. I thought about what you said awhile back about getting certified as an EMT, but I just started volunteering with the LAFD. I don’t know if I’m going to apply to the academy yet, I’m still getting my footing, but it feels…nice. Like this might be where I’m supposed to be—_

_Buck,—_

_Eddie,—_

—and then, suddenly, the letters stop.

Buck blames mail delays at first—it’s not uncommon for things to take awhile—but when a month becomes two becomes three and he still hasn’t gotten a response from his most recent letter, he starts to worry. He starts to worry a lot.

It’s not that he hasn’t known from the beginning that Eddie’s a soldier deployed to a warzone, but Eddie’s mentioned more than once that it’s not that exciting, that for the most part things are relatively quiet and boring, that he doesn’t worry that much about himself. 

As the days stretch on, Buck realizes that he never thought to ask what to do if he ever didn’t get an answer. He never thought to ask _hey, what happens if something happens to you_ or _is there any way for me to find out_. 

He never asked. And so he doesn’t know. He throws himself into his volunteer work, tries to distract himself even as his stomach sinks every night when he checks the mail and finds it devoid of the one thing he wants to get. 

He applies to the LAFD academy.

Ironically, his acceptance comes the same day he finally gets a letter in his mailbox with familiar handwriting and a Texas address. Buck rips open Eddie’s letter first.

_Buck,_

_I’m sorry it’s been awhile. Your letter got bounced around to a lot of places before it made its way into my hands. It’s a long story. The short version is my platoon got caught in a firefight. I got shot. It was close enough to the end of my tour anyway that they just discharged me early, but anyway…I was in a field hospital for a little bit and then I was home and the mail didn’t catch up right away._

_I’m…_

A scratched out line. Buck’s chest aches.

_I was going to say that I’m okay. But I haven’t lied to you before so I don’t want to do that. I’ve said it to everyone else because it feels like they need me to be or would judge me if I said otherwise but…I don’t think I am, Buck. I don’t think I’m okay. I thought being home would make it easy because it’s the only thing I’ve wanted for so long but I don’t know. I’m not entirely sure what any of it was for._

_Sorry. I don’t mean to be…I just wanted to let you know that I wasn’t ignoring you and that I’m alive and I’m home. And to say that if you want to call or text instead of writing, I’ve included my number on the other side of the page._

_-Eddie_

Buck grabs his phone immediately, dialing before he can think better of it. He hangs up just as quickly. 

There’s something…intimate about talking on the phone. Writing is easier. He can filter his thoughts more, has the option to rewrite and rephrase or take something back entirely before he says it. And his thoughts are all over the place, his heart in his throat—so. Maybe it’s better to wait. Or at least to let Eddie initiate.

Buck takes a breath and picks up the phone again, saving Eddie’s number as a new contact. Then, he opens up his texts.

_Hey_   
_I got your letter_   
_I’m glad you’re back_

* * *

The last thing Eddie plans on doing is falling for the guy on the other end of the letters. They’re friends, sure. Close friends, he’ll admit, given then number of things he’s told Buck that he hasn’t told anyone else. But anything else—that’s silly. You don’t fall for someone over a handful of letters.

And it is only letters. More than once Eddie considers giving Buck his email address—they do actually have decent internet where he’s stationed and it would be far more efficient—but he always holds off. Part of it is that he likes the physical pages, likes deciphering Buck’s terrible handwriting. And maybe he likes the effort involved. Like it’s a sign that if someone’s willing to put in the work to write to him and wait for him and write back again they really do care. 

Maybe that’s silly. But then again, Buck hasn’t asked if there’s an easier way either, so maybe he likes it too.

But…they’re friends. Nothing more. If Eddie thinks sometimes late at night that he could fall in love with Buck if he’s not careful…well. That doesn’t mean he _is_.

He looks forward to every letter though. Buck doesn’t always wait for Eddie to respond before he writes again so sometimes he gets multiple letters a month. He keeps them tied together in the bottom of his duffle bag and goes back to reread them every so often.

He’ll be back stateside soon enough. He’ll be with Chris again. He’ll be able to take time to think about what’s next, what he wants, where he wants to be.

Who he wants. 

He’s looking forward to it.

And then his helicopter crashes. Then he gets shot. Then he spirals down a dark hole of survivor’s guilt so deep that he isn’t convinced that he can come out of it on his own.

He goes home. He gets a medal. He doesn’t write to Buck. 

And then, one day, he’s checking the mail after physical therapy and he sees a letter with a familiar scrawl, with stickers all over it regarding mail forwarding, first from base, then to the hospital, and finally to him at home and he stops. And reads. 

And he pulls out a pen.

Eddie isn’t necessarily expecting a response. Or, rather, he doesn’t want to hope for one. Hope is exhausting and he’s already tired enough just from making it day-to-day. 

The night Buck calls, it takes Eddie nearly two hours to put Christopher to bed. He’s only been home a few weeks and his son has been clingy as anything—not that Eddie can blame him. It gives Eddie an excuse to be a little clingy in his own right, which he thinks he might need. 

But, it does make bedtime difficult. Because Christopher wants to be read to and then cuddled and if Eddie tries to slip away before Chris is fully under, the movement inevitably wakes him and restarts the process. 

So Eddie doesn’t hear his phone ring. Doesn’t hear the buzz of incoming messages. It’s after 10PM by the time he finally grabs his phone and falls into his own bed and sees the missed call and texts from an unfamiliar number. He’s exhausted and his shoulder aches and he’s pretty sure whatever it is he’ll deal with it in the morning, but then he actually reads the texts and—

He’s wide awake.

_Buck?_

A pause.

_Yeah. Sorry. Should have said._

Eddie hits the call button.

“Hey,” Buck answers. 

Eddie’s not sure what he expected Buck to sound like. He still doesn’t even know what Buck looks like despite the fact that both of them have collected any number of bit of information about the other that they haven’t shared with anyone else. But Buck’s voice is…warm. Relieved. 

Eddie likes it. 

“Hi,” he replies. “You called.”

“You disappeared. I was worried.”

Eddie swallows hard and closes his eyes as he presses the phone closer to his ear. “Sorry.”

“You can’t control the mail,” Buck says. “And it’s not like you asked to get shot.”

“No. No, I definitely didn’t.”

There’s rustling on the other end of the line, like Buck is cleaning or moving around.

“In your letter you said—” Buck’s voice is halting, unsure. “—you said you weren’t okay.”

Right. He did say that, didn’t he? 

The same instinct that tells him to pretend with everyone else flares up again, but Eddie shoves it down. Buck isn’t Chris who needs him to be okay or his parents who think that not being okay is just another way he’s failed. Buck is already well aware of the myriad ways in which Eddie is a fuck-up. 

“I can’t sleep,” he admits quietly. “I keep thinking I’m back there. Or wishing I was. I don’t know. My parents are around all the time acting like it’s nothing, like everything is normal, like I didn’t get shot three times, like I’m not still going to have physical therapy appointments for at least the next month to make sure my shoulder heals properly. I feel like everything is moving forward, but I can’t. Can’t think or move or _breathe_ because I might actually fall apart and there’s no space for me to do that right now.”

Buck is quiet, and then—

“What do you need?”

Eddie bites his lip against _someone—you_. “I don’t—”

“It’s an eleven hour drive from here,” Buck adds. “I could be there by tomorrow.”

“Buck…”

“I’m serious,” he insists. “You want someone there who’s on your side, you got it. You need someone to take care of things and make that space so you can deal with everything you’ve been through without the rest of your life falling apart? I can do that. Just say the word.” 

And that’s—Eddie recoils at the idea of asking for help like that even as he aches at the fact that Buck offered it so readily. It doesn’t compute, the fact that someone is telling him it’s okay to fall apart, okay to not be okay, the fact that someone wants to _take care of things for him_ so that he can focus on himself. That someone wants to take care of _him_ for once.

It doesn’t feel like something he deserves. 

The silence lingers as Eddie thinks about being back in the desert, thinks _I could fall in love with you so easily_ as Buck waits for a response.

He hates that he wants to say yes. It feels like an acceptance that he can’t handle it, that is isn’t good enough. But Buck isn’t acting like that’s a bad thing.

“You have work,” he hedges.

“Actually, I don’t,” Buck replies. “I was just accepted to the LAFD academy though. But the next training class doesn’t start for two more months so…I could be all yours.”

The dilemma is…will it be better to have him around? Eddie thinks it might be. But at the same time there’s a bubble of anxiety trapped in his chest that says that Buck will take one look at him and turn around and go right back to California. God knows he doesn’t have a good track record with making people want to stay. And if that happened—he can handle the present state of things. Not _well_ , but he can. But if he can’t pretend he has this or if he does something that makes Buck run…

“Why do you want to?” Eddie asks. “Come here. Help me.”

“Because I care about you.” Buck’s voice is gentle but firm. “Because you helped me when I was the one who was falling apart. Because you’re my friend. There are a thousand reasons, Eddie. Pick any one of them.”

Eddie swallows hard. _Not yet_ , his mind whispers. But then, a different piece, _if not now, when_. 

“I don’t have a guest room,” he says. And it’s not a denial. He can tell Buck knows that too because he can hear the smile in Buck’s voice when he replies.

“I can sleep on the couch.”

There are several responses that come to mind, but all of them make Eddie’s anxiety spike even higher, so he bites them back. The couch is a good idea. A safe idea. There’s no expectation there. 

“Okay,” Eddie agrees. “But you’re not driving through the night. And don’t drive straight through unless you feel like you absolutely need to, that’s almost too long to do at one stretch. And—”

He stops when Buck bursts out laughing.

“What?”

“Nothing, just—you really are a parent, huh?” Buck teases. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I promise to get enough sleep and get there at a reasonable hour. But remind me to tell you about the time I drove like twenty hours straight from Miami to upstate New York by myself in one shot after drinking like five Red Bulls. That was fun.”

“That’s so dangerous, I can’t believe—”

Buck starts laughing again and it’s infectious enough that Eddie joins him. When they calm down again, Eddie feels lighter, warm. He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth and says—

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Buck replies. “I want to. And…I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

“…yeah. Me too.”

Eddie clears his throat to break the pause that follows. “So, the LAFD academy, huh? That’s great—”

They fall back into more innocuous conversation topics until Eddie yawns into the speaker and Buck stops talking immediately.

“You should sleep,” Buck says. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”

Eddie feels almost like Christopher, wanting to whine that he’s not tired, that he can stay up for five more minutes.

“Will you stay on the line?” Eddie asks before he can stop himself.

“Of course I will,” Buck promises. “For as long as you need.”

The line is still open when Eddie falls asleep to a story about Buck’s bartending days in Rio. And for the first time since coming home, Eddie sleeps and doesn’t dream.

* * *

Honestly, Buck means to stay in a hotel. In part because he always feels like he’s imposing staying in other people’s houses, but mostly because if he’s staying in Eddie’s house, the last place he wants to be is on the couch and he’s pretty sure neither of them is in a place to discuss that. So, he plans on offering as soon as he gets there.

Of course, that immediately goes out the window when he meets Christopher Diaz.

“My dad says I’m not supposed to open the door for strangers,” the young boy says as he stands in the doorway, staring at Buck with deep suspicion. Buck bites his lip and refrains from pointing out that he has, in fact, already opened the door for a stranger, and bends down to Christopher’s level. 

“Your dad is absolutely right,” he replies. “But I’m actually not a stranger, I’m a friend of your dad’s. Can you get him for me?” 

Christopher looks him up and down. “Dad!” He calls. “Someone’s at the door for you.”

“Chris, what have I said about—” Eddie comes around the corner from what Buck is assuming is the kitchen and stops dead in his tracks. 

Fuck. Buck swallows hard and resists the urge to drag his eyes over the length of Eddie’s body and look his fill. It’s not that he didn’t think Eddie would be attractive, it’s mostly just—just—actually, Buck doesn’t know what he thinks. Except that he would very much like to get his hands in the other man’s hair. 

“I think six-thirty is an appropriately reasonable hour, yeah?” He jokes. Eddie flushes and looks away briefly.

“Buck.”

“That’s me.”

Eddie crosses the room in a few strides, only to hesitate—Buck takes the awkwardly extended hand that Eddie holds out and pulls him into a hug. Eddie shudders and relaxes into it, holding tight to Buck like a lifeline. He fits, that’s the first thing Buck thinks. He turns his head and his mouth grazes Eddie’s temple, mostly unintentionally, but not unwelcome. 

“Dad—who’s this?”

Eddie clears his throat and pulls back. 

“Chris, this is my friend Buck. He’s going to stay with us for a few days.”

Buck has a split second where he wonders if the situation is going to devolve into a round of _why_ , but Christopher just looks at Buck for a moment and then nods. 

“Okay.” And somehow that’s…the end of it. 

“What’s for dinner?” Buck asks.

“Dad’s burning pasta,” Christ replies before Eddie can.

“Hey!” Eddie laughs. “I am not burning anything, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure about that?” Buck teases. And when Eddie shoves lightly at his chest and smiles, it feels right.

It feels like where he’s supposed to be.

* * *

Buck stays for two weeks. Two weeks where he sleeps on the couch and watches Christopher and helps Eddie with his physical therapy and runs interference with Eddie’s mother and it’s—

God, it’s everything. 

For one thing, Christopher loves him. Buck wins his heart the first time he reads Christopher a bedtime story when Eddie is fraying at the seams over a fight with his parents about the future and does silly voices that make Chris giggle wildly. Eddie almost kisses him that night, almost says _don’t sleep on the couch_ , almost pulls him in by his shirt collar and presses _love_ into his mouth with his own. 

Buck stays and Eddie has space. Space to shatter and rebuild. Space to breathe. Space to think. Buck stays and Eddie loves him.

He just doesn’t know how to tell him.

They stay up late the night before Buck plans on heading back to LA, leaning against the cabinets in Eddie’s small kitchen drinking beer and trading stories. Buck’s in the middle of one about his college days—something about a photoshoot he agreed to do for a friend that involved tight, ripped jeans, and a lot of glitter—when Eddie stops thinking so much, sways forward, and kisses him.

Buck makes a muffled sound of surprise against his lips, his hands falling to Eddie’s hips, and kisses back.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie breathes when he pulls back, his eyes still closed. “I just…wanted to know what it would be like.”

“To kiss me?” Buck asks.

“To kiss you.”

Buck’s thumbs slip beneath Eddie’s shirt and drag along the skin above his waistband. Eddie shivers.

“What’s the verdict?”

Eddie wets his lips. He can still taste Buck on them.

“I want to do it again.”

Buck leans in, stopping just centimeters away from Eddie’s mouth. “You can,” he says. “You can kiss me as much as you want.”

So Eddie does.

They don’t have sex. Eddie still feels too broken for that, and isn’t convinced that jumping into the deep end of anything he’s never done before is a good idea in his current state of mind. But he tugs Buck into his bedroom by his belt loops and they kiss until they both have stubble burn and Eddie falls asleep wrapped up in Buck’s arms and it’s—

It’s good. It’s right. 

In the days to come though, the talk on the phone a lot. More than Eddie’s ever talked on the phone. And it’s not always innocent.

“Eddie?” Four weeks after he leaves Texas, Buck answers the phone breathless at 11PM and Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Why do you sound like that?” He asks.

“I was—I was working out?”

Eddie sinks lower under the covers of his bed, everything he had considered discussing flying out of his head.

“This late?”

“Eddie…”

Eddie swallows. They left things unspecified when Buck left Texas, but Eddie isn’t entirely oblivious. There was an implication that they were…something. Even if they couldn’t fully name it yet. And hearing that tone in Buck’s voice on the other end of the line, well. It makes Eddie’s flush. Want. 

“Were you touching yourself?”

A pause. The rustle of sheets. 

“Yes.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Eddie—you know what I was thinking about.”

Eddie’s hand dips below the covers, sliding over his stomach, toying with the waistband of his sweatpants as his eyes close.

“I don’t think I do,” he replies. “You should tell me.”

“I was thinking…about being back in your bed,” Buck says quietly, his voice low. “I was thinking about getting your pants off. Getting my hands on you. God, I wanted to touch you everywhere when I was there—I didn’t want to push, but—”

“What would you do if you were here now?” Eddie asks, letting the sound of Buck’s breathing wash over him. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend Buck’s really there.

“Would put my mouth on every inch of you,” Buck replies, and Eddie’s hand moves underneath his waistband and he strokes himself. “I wanted to suck you off so bad last time—still do. Want to make you feel good.”

“Would—” Eddie’s voice catches and he clears his throat roughly. “Would you fuck me?”

Buck makes a sound like he’s been punched. “ _God_ , Eddie—if you wanted—”

“I might,” he admits, his breathing coming faster. “I’ve thought about it. Thought about fucking you too. I think about both.”

“Yeah. Yeah—you could—fuck, I’d like that.”

“Which?”

“Either—both—fuck, Eddie—”

“I miss you,” Eddie admits later, when they’re both coming down from the high. 

“You should come to LA,” Buck says.

“I could.”

“I mean—” Buck sounds suddenly nervous. “Move. To LA. You have family here anyway and Christopher would like it and I bet you could make it into the academy easily and we could—”

“Okay.”

Buck stops. Goes quiet. “Okay?”

And Eddie can’t help but smile. “Okay,” he repeats. “I was already thinking about it anyway. And you’re right—I think being a firefighter could be a good thing for me. And LA would be good for us.”

“Us?”

“Me and Christopher,” Eddie clarifies. “Although also…me and you. If…if you’re serious about wanting…that.”

“I love you,” Buck says, and it steals his breath. “So…yeah, I’m serious.”

It’s terrifying. The words. The sentiment. The feeling of being known and seen and wanted. He opened himself up once before and ended up alone, so there’s a piece of him that doesn’t want the risk, doesn’t want to fall. 

Then again, he’s already fallen. So what’s the harm in saying it?

Eddie exhales shakily and stares up at the ceiling. “I love you too.”

Two years later, a letter falls out of Eddie’s locker at the station for the 118.

_Dear Eddie,_

_Just one question this time—Will you marry me?_

_Love,_

_Buck_

The alarm goes off then, but Eddie grabs a pencil and scribbles an answer on the back before sliding it between the slats on Buck’s locker.

_Yes._


End file.
